


"What Does This Make Us?"

by luthor_pendragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, First Time, Love, M/M, Short Story, Virgin!Sherlock, bi!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthor_pendragon/pseuds/luthor_pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are two broken hearts yearning for the other. What will this night of closeness have in store for them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	"What Does This Make Us?"

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was supposed to just be a short PWP (my first), but then I realized, I can't really write without /some/ form of context. I physically, and mentally, cannot do it, so it developed into a short story/one-shot type thing. Anyway, have fun.

“Wow, you really are married to your work.” John straightened the newspaper he was reading.

Sherlock didn’t look up from the concoction he was slowly and precisely dropping into a small beaker. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re always working. You never take a break.”

The taller man took a sample of the new mixture he’d made and placed it on a slide. “I’m easily bored. You know that.”

John huffed. “I don’t know who knows it better, me or the wall.”

Sherlock smiled as he looked into the eyepiece of his microscope, but he hid it when he spoke, instead opting for calm exasperation. “What would you have me do, John? Play cards? Read a book? Blog?”

They both smiled at this, though neither could see. “You do play your violin.”

“I don’t play it because I’m bored. I play it when I’m thinking.”

“Either way, I like it when you play,” commented John casually, turning the page of his paper. “It’s beautiful.”

“Basic mathematics, John. That’s all music is. If one can count to four, one can play music. Quite unextraordinary, really.” He gave up on the microscope and moved to add something to the chemicals, gently swirling the beaker to mix them. The doctor scoffed from his chair, feeling insulted. “But thank you,” Sherlock whispered.

Though the other man hadn’t intended it, John had heard the last bit. “You’re welcome,” he whispered back. Out loud, he said, “What are you working on now?” He listened a moment as Sherlock got up from the table and busied himself around the kitchen/lab.

“Oh, just testing a combination of plant materials infused in different temperatures of liquids and observing the results of adding sucrose and essence of _citrus limon_.”

John thought for a minute. Then a lightbulb went on in his head and he turned just as a mug of Earl Grey was thrust in his face, Sherlock smiling softly above it. The blond chuckled and took it. “Thanks.”

The tall man perched himself in his chair, another mug encircled by his delicate fingers. His smile was broader. “I’m glad you understood the clues, John.”

The other man rolled his eyes. “Well, they weren’t exactly _that_ hard to figure out, were they?” He took a sip. “Mmm, perfect.” But, then his eyes lingered a moment on his flat-mate, almost as if they were trying to read something about him.

Sherlock peered over the lip of his mug at his friend, his quick eyes dancing over the man’s features as they stared at him. The crinkles next to his eyes said he was happy, though he wasn’t exactly smiling. He was trying to hide it, then. The shifting of his weight and lowering of his right foot from his knee to the floor suggested he was nervous about something and could possibly want to get up and leave. A loud cough that he tried to stifle with another sip of tea indicated he was uncomfortable. After a brief moment of direct eye contact, he looked away and was trying far too hard to remain focused on his newspaper. “Is everything all right?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, fine. Why?” He didn’t look up as he took another drink. John Watson was good at lying. Always had been. Had to have been, considering the amount of bloody faces he’d seen in the desert. But he had yet to be able to trick his friend into believing him.

“You’ve got something on your mind. What is it?”

John paused, his eyes drifting up to meet the other man’s again. Sherlock was asking him what was going on in his head? Really? Sure, he always did that when they were on a case, and John could tell he was being trained by the genius, but never in their private lives had he asked. Never in their downtime. “Why would you be interested in what’s going on in my boring, unused, ordinary, little brain?” he asked sarcastically, folding the newspaper up with one hand and laying it on his side table.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up. “Because you’re my friend, and you interest me.”

John raised his eyebrows. “ _I_ interest _you_? Since when?”

“John, do you really believe I would’ve allowed you to become my flat-mate if I wasn’t interested in you?” He put his cup down on the arm of his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face. The thin lips remained in a serious line, but John thought there might be something hidden beneath that mask. It was rare when there wasn’t.

The shorter man’s brow furrowed slightly. _Did he realize what he just said?_ He studied Sherlock’s face and it seemed the question wasn’t _entirely_ rhetorical; so, inhaling deeply, John prepared to give an answer. But then the far-too-common, though not necessarily unwanted, thoughts invaded his mind for the umpteenth time that day. His breath hitched slightly in hesitation and he had trouble swallowing. His jaw hung open a little bit, as if he wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come, and so he just ran his tongue over suddenly dry lips, cleared his throat, and looked away.

Although his eyes didn’t remain on his friend’s face for long, the detective could see that, in addition to the apparent vocal block and the fleeting emergence of the pink muscle, the man’s pupils had dilated some. _He was aroused? Why?_ After a few anxious taps of his fingers on the side of his mug, the doctor got up and took it back into the kitchen, clearly wanting to put some space between himself and the resident of the chair opposite him. Sherlock watched as he went, allowing him that space, for now.

_What does he know?_ John was always worried the other man would find out. That’s probably why he tried so hard to get, and keep, girlfriends. The sense of brotherhood he shared with the man reminded him of his time in Afghanistan. That feeling of always having someone’s back and knowing that they had yours in return. Trusting them to do what was necessary, even if someone was hurt in the process. He smiled. It truly was ironic that he was a doctor, as Sherlock seemed to hurt everyone he came in contact with in one way or another. So far, the only person John hadn’t been able to fix was himself.

Unfortunately, all that seemed to happen when he _did_ have dates was cancel them, or run out on them, because of Sherlock. Almost every time he was ditched because he “already had a boyfriend”. And he was always working to correct other people when they thought the same. _Why did he do that?_ He was getting tired of it. He didn’t want to have to do it anymore. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk the friendship he’d formed with the man by moving things to another level. A more intimate level.

John sighed. Leaning over the counter, hands flat, head lowered, he watched quietly as some green liquid simmered slowly over a Bunsen burner. The smell was nice, but he couldn’t quite place it. Somewhere in the mint family? It was calming, though. Quiet. Peaceful. It reminded him of how he felt at the end of each case; when the worry about his dearest friend’s malnutrition and sleep-deprivation would fall away as the man finally ate and then slept for 24 hours straight. How he felt when he’d come home from the clinic to find the detective passed out on the couch, thin chest rising and falling softly, one hand pinned under a pale cheek, a cold cup of tea growing colder on the coffee table. How he felt when he would gently toss a blanket across the sleeping man’s frame, only to watch him react to the warmth by settling more comfortably on the cushions. Later, Sherlock would wake up, and ease his way back into the world by playing softly on the violin. John would hear it from his room upstairs and smile to himself, even if it woke him up at 3 in the morning. (At least he would smile until a sharp call of his name indicated that the idiot was ready to run off after a body again. He used to groan and semi-reluctantly get up and head downstairs when that happened.) Now, though, the doctor continued smiling slightly at the thought of the man’s near-innocent enthusiasm in the face of cold-blooded murder.

While John was pondering all this in silence, Sherlock’s bare feet matched the lack of sound as he stepped up behind his friend. He’d known for a while now that he wasn’t the only one teaching in this relationship. The dark-haired man had learned a modicum of patience from John, though he was the only subject it was exercised on. Well, him and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had noticed that she had noticed it, and that she was happy about it; but did he want to make her right about everything? About him, and John?

He never did find satisfaction in proving people right. Proving them wrong was a downright pleasure, especially Mycroft, but right? The detective could not condone anyone presuming what he was, even his own brother. They all called him a psychopath. He _wasn’t_ a psychopath. He was a high-functioning sociopath. Connecting with humans on a human level had always been an impossibility for him, but John; John treated him like a person, and so he was able to act like a person. John didn’t think of the detective as a machine. A computer that could be turned off once it was no longer useful. No, Doctor Watson peeled away that sociopathic exterior without even trying; and soon Sherlock Holmes found himself doing something that he never thought he’d do. Something so utterly human, it surprised even him. He fell in love.

But that proposed another problem. Sherlock had always tried so hard to keep his emotions in check, to reach the maximum potential of his mind, even depriving himself of food and sleep just to sharpen it. (Though the doctor had warned him that if he did it too long, instead of his mind getting better, it would instead get worse, and he’d start hallucinating. As if he hadn’t already discovered that himself.) But the ever constant presence of the army doctor, with his steady trigger finger and amusing emotional overreactions to dramatic situations seemed to balance out the non-committal confidence of the detective. He didn’t see emotions and so much of a bad thing, now. They were still an annoyance, but if anything, or anyone, tried hurting John Watson, he’d lay down his life trying to save him. Indeed, he’d had several times already. He would stop at nothing, if it meant protecting the man he loved. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a secret. His enemies knew.

That was the real trouble with this business. If Sherlock risked moving things to a more intimate level with the doctor, it would only give his enemies even more of an excuse to make him their puppet. He’d already lost everything to Moriarty once, and again to Mary, and then to Magnussen, almost. He’d cut the strings of that one before it was too late.

Moriarty had been dealt with. Sherlock had spent two years away from the man he loved more than anything just to protect him from what the true psychopath had planned. The Napoleon of Blackmail had taken it even farther, though. Moriarty’s attempt at making Sherlock kill himself had been one thing, but Magnussen treating John like nothing more than a piece of feces accidentally stuck to his shoe, as something less than expendable; well, the detective couldn’t take that. Sherlock had watched the doctor’s reaction to the video of being rescued from the bonfire by the taller man. Had seen how he flinched at the look on Sherlock’s face that night, the pain in his voice, the bravery he’d had rushing headlong into the flames to pull him out, as the doctor’s fiancée Mary whimpered pathetically in the background, being nothing but useless. He’d seen John’s eyes widen as Magnussen had taunted him, saying, “And look how you care about John Watson. Your damsel in distress.” The worst though, had been Mary herself.

Sherlock had tolerated the woman simply because he thought that it was what John wanted. But then came the baby. She’d miscarried early in her third trimester. Neither man knew why. They’d worked hard to make sure she was safe and healthy, but fate had struck anyway. After that, she disappeared, leaving a broken man in her wake. The detective suspected it had something to do with what Magnussen had been holding over her head, and that perhaps she had taken the failed attempt at a family as a sign that that wasn’t the kind of life she was meant to have.

*

He remembered, John had invited him over for dinner after finishing a case, the detective obviously famished. As they came up the walk, they both noticed that the house was eerily quiet. John pulled his gun while Sherlock quickly opened the door. They searched the place, but there was no sign of Mary. It wasn’t until he ended up in the kitchen that the taller man noticed the small notepad next to the phone, with nothing but the words “I’m sorry” written on it. He tore off the note and shoved it in his pocket.

Then he called out for his friend. There was no answer. Going up the stairs to the doctor’s bedroom, he found him sitting on the bed, staring towards the closet. The woman’s suitcase and most of her clothes were gone. Her wedding dress was still there though, hanging in its nylon bag, as crisp and clean as if she was to wear it that afternoon. Over the hanger, on a red ribbon, hung her rings.

Sherlock walked over to the side table next to the bed, and placed the small paper there. John turned his head long enough to read the two simple words, then his head dropped, holding back the tears in front of his friend.

“John…” started the detective quietly, reluctantly, not really know what to say, but wanting to say something.

“Get out,” came the barely audible whisper.

“John, I…”

“Get out!” The doctor cut him off and lurched to his feet, shoving the taller man out the door. He tried to protest, to gain control of the situation, but he knew that if there was enough of a single emotion within John Watson at any given time, the man was like a bull, and didn’t stop until he got what he wanted.

So Sherlock left. He went back home to Baker Street. On his way though, he texted Lestrade, explaining what had happened and asking him to keep an eye on John, since he clearly wasn’t able to.

Three hours of sitting there, worried, in the dark, and he heard a car pull up. Running downstairs, he met with the Detective Inspector and together they hauled the unconscious Doctor Watson inside.

They deposited him on Sherlock’s bed, since the stairs up to the flat were difficult enough to traverse. Neither felt the need to climb even more up to the other man’s room.

“Where was he?” inquired the detective.

“I found him in one of the pubs down by his house. He’d nearly drowned himself in whisky.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock’s eyes were dark as he gazed down at the sleeping man. Gently, he rolled him onto his side so he wouldn’t drown if threw up, which he no doubt would. Then he flipped the duvet over the short body.

“So, Mary left.” Lestrade sighed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Yes.”

“Any idea why?”

“No,” he lied. The detective exited the room, closing the door quietly behind the other man as he followed. They met at the stairwell and Sherlock put his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. “Thanks, Greg.” He sighed and his eyes looked sad.

“Y-you’re welcome.” The cop was slightly overcome with shock at the detective’s correct use of his name. They’d been friends for years, and he’d never gotten his name right. Maybe it had been a game this whole time? Sherlock did have a tendency to enjoy messing with people. Clearing his throat, he said, “Anything else I can do, you just call, yeah?”

“Yes, thank you.” The younger man patted the cop’s shoulder, then turned and walked over to his chair. Sitting in it with his heels tucked up, arms around his legs, chin on his knees, he stared off into space in the general direction of the kitchen, and so, towards his bedroom.

The Detective Inspector almost turned to leave, but stopped. “Take care of him, Sherlock. He’ll need it.”

Sherlock managed to glance up at Lestrade’s face. He saw the pain there. The old wounds. His wife had left him as well. Left him high and dry to run off with one, or several, of her many side lovers. He knew how the doctor felt. And he’d seen how destroyed John had been when Sherlock had faked his suicide, over three years prior. If anything, Lestrade would know this pain, and be better aid in dealing with it than Sherlock ever could. The younger man nodded. “I will.”

The cop nodded in return and squared his shoulders. “Right.” He turned, but paused again. “You’re a good man, Sherlock Holmes,” he said over his shoulder. Then he left, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

It took three days for John to finally emerge. Since there was a door adjoining the bathroom to the back bedroom, he was able to get up and use it without seeing Sherlock, even though he knew exactly where he was. Every morning, he’d rolled over to find a cup of tea and some toast put on the bedside table, and he’d heard the shower or the toilet, or the tea kettle blow, but those were the only signs that there was someone else in the flat.

Focusing his eyes on the cup in front of him this morning, he found that they were Mrs. Hudson’s dishes. That meant that Sherlock was too afraid to face the man directly. Too afraid, or, miracle that it would be, he was giving him his space. Sitting up, he realized that he wasn’t in the clothes he’d worn that night. He had on a white t-shirt and some flannel pajama pants, both of which were too long for him, and the shirt was a bit tight about the shoulders. They were Sherlock’s then. Still, they were warm, and comfortable. The other man must have changed his clothes when he was passed out.

Taking the cup in front of him, he sipped the tea and allowed himself a small smile. It was still warm, and exactly how he liked it. Whether it was Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson who had made it this way (more likely Sherlock, the prat remembered absolutely everything), he appreciated it.

The detective himself was lying on the couch asleep. He’d been sleeping there this whole time, when he did sleep, not wanting to disturb the doctor. But he woke this morning to the soft sound of feet covered in too-long pants. He didn’t move, trying to keep up the pretense.

John sat in his chair. “I know you’re awake, Sherlock.”

The taller man sighed and rolled over. He looked at his friend, keeping his gaze steady, and not moving too quickly. “John…”

The doctor cut him off angrily, glaring at him and pointing a finger almost accusingly. “No, shut up.” Then he shook his head, eyes closed, lips a thin line. The detective knew this look. It was the one he wore when he had difficulty coming up with words. He really wasn’t very good at expressing emotions verbally. The shorter man grunted, his hand curled now into a fist, the normally stormcloud-blue eyes a steely gray. “You know what you put me through. You know how much of a wreck my life had become. And Mary…” His lips returned to the line. After a moment, he took a deep breath and continued. “What you’ve done for me now was entirely selfish, Sherlock. You had no right to bring me here. You know I didn’t want to see you. Seeing you, and knowing what you did, and then having her…,” he took a shaky breath, trying to force back the tears he thought he’d run out of, “and then having her do the same….”

“John, I…”

“I know,” interrupted the man again, holding up his hands in a faux offering of peace. “You thought you were doing what was best when you did it. But that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.” Then he looked away and turned on the telly, completely ignoring the presence of the man on the sofa.

But he didn’t leave. That was the important part. He didn’t leave.

*

Sherlock _was_ a selfish man. He had always been. How could he not have been? When almost nothing and no one connected with him, he tended to cherish the ones that did. Even covet them. Want more from them. Doctor John Hamish Watson was no exception. Not only that. He wanted to protect him. But would it all be worth the risk? These last eight months since John had moved back in had been hard on the detective, and he didn’t know if he could take it anymore.

He gently laid a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. Noticing the small head-tilt towards it, he gave a gentle squeeze. “Tell me what’s wrong, John.” It was spoken quietly. There was no need to force anything, or aggravate the man.

“I would think, brilliant as you are, that you would’ve figured it out by now,” he replied sarcastically.

“Perhaps.” He turned the man around and let go. “But I want you to tell me instead.”

John looked up into the multi-colored irises of his friend and licked his lips nervously. They were only a few inches apart and he was feeling a little crowded, though part of him told him it was okay. The words he’d wanted to say for years now still wouldn’t come, though; so, instead, he swallowed and said, “You’re acting strange, Sherlock. Are you feeling well?” Then he reached up slowly to feel his friend’s forehead. _Just in case_ , he lied to himself.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut. The doctor’s warm hand on his brow somehow calmed him; and yet it was simultaneously electrifying. After a moment, the appendage slipped down his cheek. Standard procedure as John went to check his pulse behind his ear. His heartbeat had quickened. He knew it. And now the other man did as well.

He lifted his own hand and put it over John’s. Inconspicuously, he took the doctor’s pulse in return with his pinkie. It was over the top, too. Sighing, Sherlock held John’s wrist gently as he pulled the warm hand away from his face, instantly regretting the action. He opened his eyes to find that the blond’s pupils were dilated further, and he was sure his were the same, considering their proximity.

John’s resolve failed suddenly and he looked away. Instead, he took the hand holding his and splayed the fingers open, thoughtfully tracing the lines of the palm with his thumbs. The corner of his mouth twitched up into a small smile. “Your hands are so soft, you know that? Delicate. Careful. Precise. So great for doing the work you do.” A deep, shaky breath. “So different from mine. Mine are rough, calloused,” he pulled his right hand away slightly and flexed it, “scarred…”

“Strong,” Sherlock cut in quietly, making the doctor look up at him. “Strong, and warm, and steady.”

John scoffed. “Steady, right. No doubt Mycroft told you about my not-so-nervous tick.”

“He didn’t need to. I noticed it, just as I noticed your limp. You needed action in your life, so I invited you into mine.” Sherlock curled his fingers around John’s, lacing them together.

John studied his friend’s face. The sharp cheekbones and stern, thin lips; the blue-and-green orbs that were his eyes; the soft, dark curls that bounced on his forehead. The man was beautiful. He really was. This time, though, the doctor didn’t see the intelligent chemist, the master detective, the smug mask of a man with no friends. It had all softened as it stared back at him. He thought he saw genuine worry in those eyes, the brows furrowing together slightly, the lips barely parted, breath coming in unconscious short gasps.

He couldn’t take it. Not with Sherlock looking at him like that. _Fuck it._ Forcing his nerves back down into the nest of butterflies in his belly _,_ John snapped himself up onto the balls of his feet and pressed his lips against the other man’s. His eyes were slightly scrunched shut and his brow furrowed as he attempted to control the adrenaline-filled part of his brain that told him it was a bad idea.

Sherlock was momentarily stunned, but then his eyes widened as he realized what was happening. He melted, pressing his face down against John’s, pushing the shorter man back to flat-footedness. His free hand, his left hand, slipped up John’s arm and squeezed gently, fingers curling into sleeve of the man’s jumper.

The doctor unfolded his fingers from between Sherlock’s and instead snaked his softly around the man’s back, his face relaxing as their lips moved with each other smoothly. It had all finally clicked, after so many years of tension, and sharing breath became second nature, while personal space was completely abandoned. Indeed, neither no longer knew why it had ever existed in the first place.

Sherlock longed to pin the shorter man up against the counter, but his burner was still working, and there were far too many risks involved, so he settled for pulling him even closer. His lanky arms moved to wrap around the doctor’s shoulders so that they were chest to chest. He arched his back and hummed contentedly as he felt the shorter man’s arms lock into place around his waist.

They came up for air, lungs heaving, and leaned their foreheads against each other softly. John paused, shaking his head a little. “That was….,” he closed his eyes nervously, “Mm… Was that… interesting enough… for you?” Opening them, he looked up softly through the lashes.

Sherlock smiled down at him, eyes gazing happily to meet the other man’s. “I’ve never been… less bored… John.” His right hand came up and he allowed his thumb to slowly graze over the doctor’s cheekbone, fingertips gently curling against the corner of his jaw.

The shorter man nodded, swallowing his nerves. “Good. That’s good.” He placed a small, chaste kiss on the palm of Sherlock’s hand, nuzzling it a bit. “Good,” he repeated under his breath, as if trying to reassure himself.

“And the idea of further developments, at least in theory, is rather intriguing.” The detective whispered as he softly moved his fingers to run through the short, sandy hair, tracing the contour of the man’s ear.

John eyebrows went up and he pulled his head away, but he didn’t leave the detective’s embrace. “Really? I never would’ve pegged you for the type.” His fingertips worked small circles into the thin man’s lower back almost unconsciously. They wanted to do what they could, for as long as they could, until they had to go back to living without.

“Ooh…” Sherlock moaned quietly at the touch. “And what type would that be?” A snarky smirk teased the corner of his mouth as he ran the back of his knuckles slowly down John’s neck. His left hand gently massaged the man’s right bicep. He knew the doctor was far stronger than he appeared, and he wanted ( _needed_ ) to feel those muscles flex under his grip. But he’d have to be patient.

The blond tilted his head, eyebrow cocked. “I didn’t know you were into sex. After everything concerning Irene Adler, I didn’t think it would be something that you’d do.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, and that’s true. I’m not usually into sex. Not with women at any rate.”

“Hmm,” John nodded. “I suspected as much.”

The detective laughed. “’Suspected’? I told you right from the beginning that they weren’t my area. I thought you understood that, considering what you said next.”

The doctor nodded again, remembering back to that first night together, so many years ago. And yet, it really wasn’t all that long ago. He smiled. “I asked if you had a boyfriend.”

“That’s right.”

“You have that whole conversation committed to memory, don’t you?”

The taller man smirked and kissed the shorter’s forehead. “As if you have to ask. Of course I remember it.”

“Why?”

The detective shrugged. “Oh, you know…”

“Sentiment?” interrupted John, smirking back.

_Damn, that was cute._ “Perhaps.”

“And is that what’s going on here? Sentiment?”

“Perhaps,” he repeated, his voice a low, husky growl next the man’s ear. He gently moved his lips over the man’s jaw. “Do you object?”

John moaned and bit his lip, savoring the feeling. “No. No objections,” he shook his head. “Though perhaps we should move to a safer location.” Looking past the taller man’s arm, he eyed the myriad of chemicals and glass precariously balanced on the table.

Sherlock chuckled, looking back over his shoulder. “Agreed.” He backed up around the table and pulled John with him down the hall.

“Why your room?”

“Simple. Your military style bed isn’t large enough to accommodate two people.”

“Of course,” said John, berating himself mentally. The instant he stepped through the door he flicked on the light and pushed Sherlock against the wall, the green wallpaper a lovely contrast to his dark curls. Pinning the taller man’s arms down, he began sucking on his neck.

At first, Sherlock was startled by the move, but then he moaned loudly at the attention to his throat and started to slump, his knees buckling. Fighting it off, forcing himself up, he wriggled his way free and shoved the ex-soldier towards the bed. John flailed somewhat, resisting, until he kicked the lip of the rug up with his heel and tripped on it.

He fell, his right arm wheeling for balance, left hand hitched into Sherlock’s shirt, dragging the other man down with him. They landed and the detective quickly pinned him under his lanky form, hands pushing the arms above his head and out of the way. Then those soft, chocolate curls descended until they tickled under the doctor’s chin, the man’s sharp teeth nipping gently at the exposed skin of the throat.

John hissed, “Oh.” He hooked a leg behind one of Sherlock’s knees, holding him in place. “Not even going to let me undress you?” He inhaled heavily, pushing his chest against the other man, seeking some sort of pressure, while tilting his chin up, exposing more skin. “Such a tease, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock froze. “Is that what you want?” he mumbled, lips pressed against John’s collarbone. Coming up, the detective’s blue-green eyes met the doctor’s blue-grey.

John sighed heavily and stared back, seeing the look in his friend’s face, the vulnerability in it. His smile faded and he gave a small nod, speaking softly. “Only if that’s what you want, Sherlock. We don’t actually have to do this, you know.” A hand easily freed itself from the other man’s grip and came up, laying itself over the wan cheek, fingertips pushing soft curls back behind the ear.

Sherlock looked away. He inhaled deeply, paused, and then slowly exhaled. There was a part of him that wanted to do this. It really did. And yet there was a part of him that wanted to take it all back. To pretend like none of this ever happened. That knew it was safer, for both of them, if he did that. But he couldn’t bring himself to back off. Not with how close he was now. So, resolved, he gently pressed his lips against the doctor’s and released his other wrist. Moving his own arms down to either side of the man’s torso, he pushed himself up on his elbows. Then he lifted his legs, wedging one knee in between John’s and putting the other beside his hip. Releasing his lips, he breathed a soft, “Please. John.”

John nodded. “Okay.” He slowly started unbuttoning the dark purple cloth encasing the detective. “You know, I’ve always loved this shirt on you,” he whispered, his eyes watching the ones above him as his fingers softly worked their way down, slowly revealing the pale frame underneath.

Sherlock smiled and hummed appreciatively. “I know.” He move his left hand up to stroke John’s face softly, fingertips sliding up over the ear and through the short, blond locks. “You always got a bit shaky whenever I wore it.” He leaned in a bit closer, as if he was telling John a secret, “If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been wearing it more often recently.”

“Just to tease me, right?”

Sherlock smirked. “To test a theory.”

The blonde laughed and pushed the article off the brunette’s shoulders. Sherlock easily slipped his thin arms out of the sleeves. He was toned, though not obviously so. Just enough to know what was what but without compromising his aerodynamic form. His runner’s form.

John threw the shirt to the ground and then wound his arms around the detective’s back, pulling himself up to lick softly at his collarbone. Sherlock winced in pleasure and let a small moan free into the doctor’s ear. “My turn,” he breathed. “First of all, that ghastly jumper.” He grabbed the hem of John’s sweater and pulled it over his head.

The action left John sitting up while Sherlock kneeled, straddling the doctor’s leg. “I thought you liked my clothes.” He punctuated this with sharp teeth on the man’s nipple, feigning offense.

Sherlock twitched. “Not… fair…,” he panted. He was starting to get hard, and he really didn’t feel like shoving his cock right up into the man’s face. Not at the moment. Maybe later. “I merely meant,” he tried to pull away but John stopped him by grasping two fistfuls of Holmes’ butt, causing the taller man to let out a delicious squeak. Gulping heavily, he continued with, “I merely meant that it was a nuisance, given our current situation.”

John hummed in response as he continued tormenting the taller man with his mouth.

Sherlock wheezed as a warm, wet tongue licked a stripe up his hip joint. He pushed the other man back onto his back and deftly undid the present button-down, only to be met with a cotton undershirt. “I’m the tease, really, John? How on earth can you be wearing so many layers, and yet still be cold?”

John rubbed his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms and arched his eyebrow, smiling. “You’re asking me that now?”

That cocky twinkle appeared in the detective’s eye, though his face deadpanned. “Well, it does seem rather relevant, don’t you think?”

The soldier just shook his head in disbelief. “You already know the answer, I know you do. So by all means,” he waved his hand nonchalantly, “deduce away. After all, it is what you’re good at.” He laid back patiently, his hands folded behind his head, chest exposed, smug smile across his face.

“Teasing again, John?” He smirked as he ran his hands over the doctor’s muscled torso. “Very well. The reason you wear so many layers is that your body is still acclimatized to the arid deserts of Afghanistan, even after all these years,” he bent down and nipped at the man’s jaw. “In addition to the heat, you had your uniform,” kiss, “and gear,” another nibble, “and so even the warmest of days here in England is too cold for you, especially with the level of humidity.” He raked his teeth along John’s earlobe, eliciting a lustful sigh from the blond. “The near constant mist puts you at risk for pneumonia on a daily basis.” He sucked on the man’s pulse point behind his jaw. “So you bundle up, drink your tea hot, and,” the last bit was spoken with a low, playful growl against his neck, “keep your flat-mate’s blood pressure at a ridiculously high level.” His tongue placed a languid stripe over the muscle pulsing there.

“God, that’s hot.” John’s eyes drifted shut and he hooked a hand behind Sherlock’s neck, pulling him up into a strong kiss. The other arm wrapped itself around the man’s shoulders, holding him still.

He couldn’t resist. Sherlock parted the other man’s lips with his tongue as his long fingers pushed open the button-down wider. John let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper as he sucked gently on the muscle invading his mouth. His hands moved up to massage the taller man’s back, his expert fingers knowing just where to push and prod to elicit the ideal response from his detective.

Sherlock melted. He dropped down off his elbows, putting his slight weight fully onto the other man and snaking his hands up the doctor’s undershirt, who immediately started grunting and squirming, gripping tightly to the detective’s shoulders. Sherlock pulled his tongue back and smirked. “My, my, Dr. Watson. Still hiding secrets are we?” He danced his precise fingertips over the doctor’s ribs and belly.

“NO! No, stop it,” he laughed and wriggled. “Sherlock Holmes, you stop this right now.” Steeling his will, the soldier latched onto his “opponent” and flipped him before mercilessly attacking him with his mouth.

“Ah!” The world’s only Consulting Detective was helpless as Captain John H. Watson sucked gently under his Adam’s apple. There was no doubt going to be some bruises there come morning. “You’ve got me, Doctor,” he feigned playfully, breathing hard. “Now what are you going to do with me?”

John laughed gloatingly. “Oh, you like that, do you?” Sherlock whimpered and nodded. “Good, then I think you might like this.” He sat up on his knees and stripped off both shirts. The level of adrenaline running through the doctor’s blood was evident by his flexing muscles. He wasn’t even trying to show off. It wasn’t like he was a body builder or anything, but his time in the service, and running around London, had certainly done him some good, and this was something the brunette seemed to appreciate.

A hungry look appeared in the detective’s eyes as they roamed over the newly freed torso. The tip of a delicate pink tongue drifted over the thin lips. He sat up and his soft hands came up to trace the lines of muscle, needing to feel them. Wanting to never let go once he did.

His fingers slid over the biceps and triceps, squeezing lightly. Drifted over the pectorals, feeling the muscle fill his palm perfectly as he cupped them. Down over the abdominals, and resting against the hips, his thumbs teasing the arch of the pelvis on either side. He had been right. This man was delicious, and he wanted to taste every bit of him.

This was a side of Sherlock John had never encountered. Desire, sure, he’d seen that, but the pure lust… He smiled maliciously and pressed his groin down against the other man’s, their hardening cocks rubbing on each other. It was clearly a mistake as the friction elicited groans from both of them and John fell forward onto his hands, forcing Sherlock to lie down, lest the bump heads. They stopped moving and lay there, panting. “At this rate, Sherlock, we might not make it to the fun part,” he laughed.

“Oh, John,” he said, laughing in return, “every part is the fun part.” He hugged the blond down to him, lips working against the other man’s while one hand worked to free the belt from his trousers. Nimble fingers popped the fly as easily as they plucked a violin string and the zipper slid open just as quickly. Then he slipped his hand in and around to the back, cupping the buttock of the man above him and squeezing lightly.

“Oh, Sherlock,” breathed John, his lips moving to ghost over the man’s collarbone, the fingers of one hand trailing softly down his chest to the rim of his trousers. He dipped one fingertip in and teasingly ran it over the man’s belly. A whimper escaped next to his ear. He smiled against the pale man’s neck and pushed the heel of his hand roughly against the prominent erection beneath it.

“John, please,” Sherlock whined. He rocked his hips up, craving more friction. John nodded against him and undid his fly, reaching down in to adjust the hardened extremity and then slowly massage him. Sherlock groaned and his breath started coming in short bursts. In reaction, the detective pushed down the doctor’s trousers and slipped his fingers underneath the waistband of his pants. His long fingers splayed out and roamed around, memorizing the shape of the pelvis beneath them. He teasingly stroked his thumbs along the sensitive skin surrounding John’s member.

The ex-soldier twitched his hips forward, growing momentarily frustrated. He growled. “Sherlock, if you’re gonna do it, just do it.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled quietly and kissed the man’s cheek. He curled his lithe fingers around the other man’s hardness and started slowly stroking. A sigh of relief rang through John’s chest and he began stroking back more vigorously. Sherlock nearly choked on the sensation. He jerked up and bit John hard on the place where his shoulder met his neck. The doctor responded by pressing down hard with his hips, pinning their hands between them.

With a grunt, Sherlock wrapped his free arm tightly around John’s shoulders and rolled, dumping the shorter man on the bed. He crawled away and knelt on the floor, catching his breath.

John sat up and looked up at his friend. _Or was it more now?_ “Is anything wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head. He ran his hands slowly up the other man’s thighs, massaging lightly. His eyes trailed up over the shape of his friend’s body. All those muscles usually hidden beneath jumpers, the skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, cheeks flushed and eyes blown so wide only a dark rim of blue was able to be seen. “Just admiring the view.”

John reached forward and affectionately ran his hand through the detective’s curls. Eyelids fluttered shut over ice-colored irises. He had always appreciated the way that Sherlock’s eyes changed color depending on his mood. Icy white-blue meant he was excited or happy about something. He pulled the other man to him, wrapping his arms tightly around the thin shoulders while Sherlock slid his own around his back.

They just sat there, breathing against each other, savoring the feeling of finally getting their feelings out on the table, running exploratory hands and fingers over each other. Their cocks were achingly hard, but it was more of a nuisance to either of them when it came to their sense of closeness.

John was softly inhaling the scent of Sherlock’s shampoo as his fingers drifted through the dark locks. Sherlock couldn’t get enough of the aftershave on John’s neck and he started kissing it softly. His breathing was more even now that he had calmed down a bit, and his head had cleared enough that he could store this whole scene in his Mind Palace. Even as his mouth sucked and licked and kissed a map all across John’s chest, Sherlock built a special new wing in the Palace. All of his memories of John, all the moments up until now, all the small details that made the man who and what he was, were delicately placed in their appropriate caches for later reflection.

John noticed how methodical the detective was being in his attentions. He pulled the man away from his body and kissed his forehead. “You’re thinking.” Sherlock hummed affirmatively even as his hands felt up over the soldier’s hardened back. “What are you thinking about?”

“You.” His violinist fingers drifted behind the other man’s shoulders. They cautiously traced over the raised bit of scar tissue on the left one. He never did understand why John had developed a psychosomatic limp when he hadn’t been shot in any place that would’ve caused such a handicap. Most likely just for the attention.

“Hmm,” John stroked the scruff that had grown on the detective’s face over the course of the day. “It’s a good thing I enjoy your brain because you think far too much.” He kissed the man, licking inside.

Sherlock responded by lowering his hands over doctor’s body. He slipped his fingers under the pants and pulled on them suggestively. John laid back and lifted his hips, allowing the detective to fully disrobe him. He’d gone soft a little bit, but Sherlock’s gentle touch was all that was needed to bring him back up. John moaned and gasped as the nimble fingers worked him. “Oh, Sherlock…” He could hardly breathe.

“Hmm?” John shook his head. A slip of Sherlock’s thumb over his slit had him whimpering and quivering, high on adrenaline and endorphins. The reactions had the detective’s own member jumping back up, ready to meet whatever attention it was given. Sherlock kissed up John’s inner thighs, his breath ghosting cool over the flushed skin. The muscles twitched and choked sounds were coming from the doctor’s throat. The man breathed deeply, steeling his nerves, before gently placing his lips on the other’s swollen member.

John cried out from the sudden wetness and warmth, but he didn’t look down at what was happening between his legs. The rush of pleasure wouldn’t allow him to open his eyes. Each kiss pushed another image into his mind and all he could do was gasp out his friend’s name.

Sherlock let off, but kept softly stroking the man’s legs with his hands. He nipped gently at the soft flesh, causing John to clutch at the duvet. One hand went up to squeeze the doctor’s testicles gently, and, with one last, soft kiss to the tip, Sherlock took John into his mouth.

The shorter man jerked, arching his back at the warm embrace while still trying very hard to keep his hips still. Panting, he forced himself to open his eyes and look down his body at Sherlock. The detective’s eyes were closed, focused, concentrating on controlling his lips, tongue, keeping his teeth from doing too much damage, but doing just the right amount. John could feel it all, and it was marvelous. He slowly reached out to caress the thin face. His thumb slipped over the sharp cheekbone, eliciting a soft moan from Sherlock. Satisfied, John slid his hand up and locked his fingers in the curls, pulling a bit.

The small, sharp tug on his hair drew a whimper from deep in Sherlock’s throat. He responded by taking John in further, swallowing around the tip. He gagged a little, but forced it down. Embarrassing himself in this kind of situation, especially when it was with John; well, that just didn’t seem like an option.

To reassure the doctor, and himself, he continued sucking gently, wrapping his tongue around the other man’s cock as well as he could, while his hands drifted up over the muscular thighs and around to the soft buttocks. In his head, he laughed. All that desk sitting at the surgery had softened the doctor’s hind-quarters, but that didn’t matter. Kind of made it more fun to play with. Smiling to himself, he gave a sharp, little pinch.

John squeaked a bit and tried his damnedest not to jump, but the unexpected sensation caused him to stab his prick into Sherlock’s throat nonetheless.

Sherlock gagged and got off, coughing a bit. He sat back onto the floor, working his throat muscles back to normal.

John was horrified. “Jesus, Sherlock, are you all right?” He came down off the bed and kneeled in front of his friend. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t hurt you, did I?” His hands drifted up to softly cradle the man’s jaw.

The detective shook his head. “I’m fine, John.” He wrapped his arms around the smaller man’s waist and gave him a soft kiss, trying to alleviate the worry in the blue eyes. “Really. It was just unexpected, that’s all.”

He nodded. “Okay.” John gave him another kiss, then stood up, pulling Sherlock up after him. He turned them and pushed the taller man towards the bed. “Your turn then.”

Sherlock gave him a confused look but sat down on the rumpled duvet.

John pushed on his chest again. “Lie down, and lift your hips.” The other man complied and John pulled on his pants, removing them and his trousers swiftly.

Sherlock’s hard cock sprang free, rising away from his body. Goosebumps erupted over his flesh from the sudden loss of warm fabric but they were soon smoothed down by the doctor’s hands. Further heat was applied when John took Sherlock completely into his mouth in one go.

“John,” panted the detective.

“Mmm?” hummed the shorter man. His tongue danced over the flesh, causing delicious sounds to erupt from his flat-mate. It had been a while since he’d done this. Not since he was still on duty, lost somewhere in the desert. He wasn’t gay. He knew that. But with how events had progressed since meeting the detective, he’s willing to admit he was bisexual, even if it was only to himself. Apparently, everyone else had noticed it, though; so he guessed he didn’t really have the balls to actually come out. Maybe this would change things.

“John,” choked Sherlock repeatedly, the sensations almost preventing him from speaking for a good couple of minutes. One last, desperate, call of his friend’s name and the doctor looked up him through soft, blond eyelashes. _Damn him!_ He waved feebly towards the bedside table. “In the… _ah!..._ in the drawer.”

With a teasingly delicious pop, John released the other man, who gave a soft sigh and lay there, panting shakily. The doctor crawled over to the table, digging around in it until he found lube and a condom. He held them up, his eyebrow cocked. “You were expecting this?”

Sherlock shook his head, breathing more steadily now, trying to force himself to calm down a bit. “Expecting, no. Wanting, yes. Wanting for a long time now.”

John closed the drawer, then clambered up onto the bed to lay down next to the other man. Putting down the items, he ran his hand softly over the pale chest, stroking slowly, massaging with his open palm. “How did you want to do this?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, pupils blown wide, and looked up into John’s face. “I figured you’d want to, um…”

“Top?”

He nodded.

“I can’t say it’s not my go-to, but how do you feel about it?”

The detective shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter to me, I- I guess.”

Concern flashed across the doctor’s face. “You’re nervous.”

Again, Sherlock nodded.

“This isn’t your first time, is it?”

He nodded a third time, although hesitantly.

“Wow.” John looked away, second guessing himself. He didn’t want to hurt the man. He cared about him too much.

A long, thin hand came up to cradle the doctor’s cheek and pull him back into eye contact. “I know, John, but I _would_ rather like it to be you. Someone I actually trust, and that knows me, instead of some random guy I picked up at the pub.”

John laughed quietly. “Yeah, like you would go to a pub for no significant reason. Or pick up some random guy for sex.” He grabbed the hand and gave it a kiss. “I know you better than that.”

Sherlock smiled. “And I know you.” Pulling the man down over himself, he pinned their mouths together.

Rolling a bit, John wormed his way in between the other man’s legs. He pulled one up and placed it gently over his own hip, massaging the thigh softly. Then he pulled his mouth away and stole the other man’s eyes with his own. “If you’re sure, Sherlock.”

He smiled, staring the doctor in the eye cockily. “I’m not the one who claims to not be gay, John.”

“Touché.” The doctor laughed again and gave the other man a soft kiss. Reaching down, he picked up the bottle and squeezed some lube into his hand. Warming it up on his fingers, he gently reached down and teased around Sherlock’s hole, taking it easy. His other hand stroked slow ribbons up and down the other man’s torso, trying to keep him calm.

The detective’s breath hitched at the sensation nonetheless, and his body froze, not daring to move. He bit his lip, not wanting to disappoint.

The shorter man paused in his attentions. Looking up, he laced their fingers together. “Hey, are you okay?”

Nodding, Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked up at the man he’d come to love. “Yes, I’m all right. Just… ah… not used to it. It’s different.” He gave a small, crooked smile and looked away, breathing deeply, forcing himself to relax. Not wanting to be insulting, he added, “Different, but good.”

John dipped his head and nuzzled under the other man’s jaw. “If I do anything you don’t like, anything you’re not comfortable with, tell me, Sherlock, and I’ll stop, okay?” He pulled his hands up, the messy one hooking itself under the detective’s arm, making it wrap around his shoulders, and the one laced with the other man’s he moved to his mouth, softly kissing the thin knuckles protruding from between his own.

Sherlock hugged him tightly and kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay, John. I’m okay.” He kissed the other man’s knuckles in return. “Go ahead.”

Lifting his body, John freed himself from the man’s embrace. “Only if you’re sure.”

Sherlock laid his hand on the man’s cheek, his face deadpanning. “I’m positive. Now, continue, please, before I get annoyed and do it myself.”

The shorter man nodded, chuckling, ( _same old Sherlock_ ) and stooped to give the taller one another kiss. As his tongue teased its way inside, he again started working the tight muscles of the man’s entrance.

The kiss was more to distract him than anything, the detective knew, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t just as pleasurable. He raised his leg a little, holding his ankle up over the other man’s hip. Pretty soon, the feeling of John’s fingers teasing him was no longer uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. He began to whimper and moan against John’s mouth, causing the other man to smile. Sherlock’s free hand drifted down between them, fingers wrapping around his length and pulling, slowly.

John felt Sherlock’s hand knock against his belly a few times and he pulled back his tongue, smirking.

“What’s that look for?” grunted the detective, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Enjoying yourself?” gloated the doctor. He pressed a little more insistently against the man’s sphincter, but he didn’t enter, not yet. It wasn’t time for that yet. He wanted to draw this out as long as he could. Watching the man who was usually so control fall apart beneath him was so exhilarating.

Sherlock moaned at the pressure and nodded, the ability to use his tongue having suddenly flown out the window, much to his annoyance.

“Good.” He chuckled low in his throat, almost a growl, and gave a large lick up the man’s neck before pausing to suck softly on his pulse point. “I’m glad.” All that came in reply was another whimper.

Laughing, John worked his way down his new lover’s body. Teeth grazed across an earlobe. Another hickey was placed just below the Adam’s apple. A warm tongue drifted over a collar bone and then a sharp pinch as teeth took to a nipple. Soft kisses to ease the pain, softer lips ghosting down over the tight tummy, and then the warm tongue again along the lines of the hipbones.

All Sherlock could do was gasp and whine and brokenly squeeze John’s name out of his throat. Precum came out dribbling over his hand, his cock achingly hard, and all the more turned on from the attention at his hind end. _Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He was gay, after all. Isn’t that how it usually worked?_ Then again, it’s not like he ever gave a thought to his particular position on the rare occasion that he did masturbate anyway. He was usually working too much to worry about succumbing to basic, primal urges.

A sharp bite to his hip caught his attention and he let out a low groan, bucking slightly. Through the haze of pleasure, he heard John let out a low, growling chuckle and _God, was that hot_. “Nnnnhhhh, Joooohhhn.”

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay, Sherlock. I’ve got you. Don’t you worry.” He gently kissed away his teeth marks. Then he nuzzled at the violinist’s fingers. “Let go.”

“What?” He blinked slowly, stupidly.

“Let go. I’ve got you.” John kissed across the back of the man’s hand and it released, slick and sticky. For a moment, his lubed hand came up to work Sherlock’s balls in conjunction with his tongue as it slipped its way up and over the erection in front of him before returning to its duties on the man’s hind-end.

A low, guttural moan shuddered out his chest as he felt his length taken in by his friend a second time. “Oh!” Sherlock bucked a little and the shorter man took it in stride, having been in this situation before. The detective knew, in the military, one got sex when and where one could, the physical sex of the other party being entirely inconsequential, so it didn’t surprise him in the least that John knew what he was doing. On the contrary, it was rather reassuring.

John listened as Sherlock’s breathing started coming in sharp pants interjected with soft moans and almost full-body shudders. He felt the man’s sticky hand come up and lock itself into his short hair, clipped nails digging into his scalp and tugging lightly. He moaned, his throat vibrating around the man’s cock as he swallowed him down.

“Oh! Oh, John!” He dug his fingernails into the man’s flesh, both on his head and in his hand. The muscles of his anus started quivering, feeling hungry, and surprisingly empty, due to the man’s teasing. He ground his hips down, seeking more pressure.

The doctor registered the movement. Not stopping the movement of his head, on the downbeat, he easily slipped one finger inside. Then he paused, letting him get used to the sensation. Inside his mouth, John could feel the man’s cock throbbing.

Sherlock growled at the entrance. The sharp pain was less of an annoyance than he anticipated. Indeed, it was better than feeling hungry. Still, it wasn’t enough and he moaned out his friend’s name. “John, please.” He rocked his hips gently back and forth. “Please,” he begged.

“Mm-hmm,” John hummed around his mouthful, causing a gasp to escape the other man’s throat. Continuing his undulations, slower this time, he matched the beat with working his finger in and out of Sherlock. Circling his finger even as he circled his tongue, slipping the tips over the slit and prostate simultaneously. Being a doctor, he knew roughly where that special bundle of nerves was located, which saved him time in searching for it.

The detective lost control of his breathing. Panting heavily, sweat falling off his brow, matting down his dark curls, he fell apart. Nothing was better than this. Nothing. Pant. No. Wait. Moan. Not nothing. Swallowing, he wet his throat enough to breath out one word. “More.”

The shorter man responded by wedging a second lubed finger in with the first, working slowly. He knew the addition would burn, but he also knew that it would feel so much better, for them both, once the other man was opened. He heard Sherlock hiss in response, but soon he went back to breathing heavily. After John was satisfied that the other man was comfortable, he started scissoring, easing his fingers apart as he moved them in and out and about. A shudder ran through the man’s body and his leg slipped off John’s back and down over the edge of the bed.

Letting go of Sherlock’s hand and cock, John hooked the leg back up, holding the heel against the duvet. Giving a kiss to the inside of the thigh, he smiled, his other hand still working. The man really was beautiful. “You’re brilliant, Sherlock, you know that? Absolutely fantastic.”

Sherlock gave the tiniest of smiles and whined, his mouth almost unable to move. His eyes were glued shut in pleasure, but he wanted to see the other man. Needed to see him. The man who could take him apart and take care of him. He’d always taken care of him. Always helped him. Been there for him. Even if he had only himself to blame. Ever since that first meeting at Bart’s. And he’d always put him back together again. It was John Watson who kept him right, and even more so now. He forced his eyes open and smiled at the amazing man above him. Sitting up slowly on his elbow, he pulled him into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. The musky taste of his own sweat and precum was still present on the doctor’s tongue and it was breathtaking.

John didn’t have a word for the look Sherlock gave him. There was adoration, and admiration, for sure; but most of all it was trust inhabiting those eyes icy eyes. He saw that Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to hurt him. He never could, and the detective knew that. John Watson knew now. He could finally put a name to it. He loved this man. More than a best friend, more than a brother. He knew now that he didn’t ever want to let him go, and he fell freely into that kiss, never wanting to come back up.

Unfortunately the detective had other plans. After a moment he released the doctor, and slid backwards off his fingers. John gave a little whine at the loss and it went straight to the detective’s dick.

“What are you doing?” asked the blond dazedly.

Sherlock moved and turned, laying himself out on the bed more comfortably. “I felt it was better if we weren’t, or rather, you weren’t, hanging off the edge of the bed.” Then he settled his head back against the pillows and held open his arms, inviting the other man into them.

“I suppose you’re right,” John laughed, and he crawled up and over the other man.

“I’m always right,” Sherlock replied, wrapping around the doctor’s torso, holding him close.

“You’re not _always_ right,” commented John, rolling his eyes. He nuzzled down and started softly kissing the other man’s neck.

The detective sighed. “Alright, I’m right ninety-eight percent of the time.”

“A whole two percent. My, aren’t we generous this evening, Mr. Holmes,” smirked the doctor against his collarbone.

“Shut up.”

They both laughed and John came up to meet the eyes of the other man. They stared for a moment, content with being in each other’s space, breathing each other’s air. Then, smiling, John pulled Sherlock’s face up for another kiss, this one sweet and slow, even as his body descended. A sharp jolt went through both of them as their cocks rubbed on one another, and neither knew where the corresponding moans erupted from.

They rutted against each other slowly, foreheads pinned together, exchanging air, their lips not quite touching, but hands roaming everywhere. Sherlock’s came up to squeeze and massage John’s butt cheeks, pulling his hips down even as he bucked. John slipped his nails slowly down the detective’s sides and over his thighs, making the man squirm. Soon they were again panting uncontrollably, the haze of pleasure invading their minds like some sort of heavy fog.

John slipped a kiss to the corner of the detective’s mouth, then worked down his jaw to his ear. “Do you want me to continue?”

Sherlock groaned, gritting his teeth against the wave of pleasure, and nodded.

“Okay.” The shorter man sat up, trying to catch his breath. Picking up the bottle of lube again, he slicked his fingers up, then lowered them. Sherlock’s hole was still kind of open, so he managed to push two fingers in. Still, he watched as the pale man winced and tried to breathe, willing the burn away. He kissed him. “Sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s all right. It’s good. You’re good. Just move. Gently.”

John nodded. “Okay.” Slowly sliding his fingers in and out, he matched the tempo with his other hand on Sherlock’s dick, working them together to bring the man back up.

The taller man responded by hooking one hand behind his lover’s neck and pulling him into a kiss, then placing his other hand over John’s erection, trying to copy the rhythm.

A whimper and a moan fell into the detective’s mouth. John had been so focused on taking care of Sherlock, he’d neglected his own needs, but now that he was being given attention, he couldn’t get enough. Working his fingers a little more, he began scissoring more urgently against the other man’s muscles, his other thumb working its way around the head of Sherlock’s dick, spreading the precum all around the sensitive head.

John felt his dick twinge and throb in the other man’s hand. “OH! Sherlock!” It was getting to be too much. He needed to fuck this man. To feel himself surrounded by a warm body. He bucked, but didn’t let up with his fingers.

Sherlock groaned and ground down, his muscles looser. “John,” he panted.

The doctor nodded and slipped a third finger inside the man. A sharp “Ah!” came from both of them. The new addition burned, and in response, Sherlock had given an extra hard pull on the flesh in his hand.

_He’s so close. Almost there._ John worked his fingers more insistently, brushing against the pale man’s prostate, pushing the muscles apart. _Need room. More room._

Sherlock panted and cried out with each new wave of pleasure. He let go of John’s cock and instead put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “John, stop.” He sighed shakily. “Stop.”

The shorter man froze, concern filling his eyes as he looked at the debauched man beneath him. “What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?”

“No, nothing like that.” The brunette pulled the other man down into his arms and held him there, placing slow, tender kisses over his face. “No. It’s just that, if we had continued on like that, I would have gone off.”

“Mm-hmm, I know.” John captured Sherlock’s lips with his own. “But you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Sherlock sighed as his bottom lip was pulled between sharp teeth a little bit. Tenderness be damned. He was hungry. He wrapped his mouth around the side of John’s neck, sucking and licking at the muscle. “It is a bad thing,” he growled as he moved to graze his teeth along the curve of the shorter man’s ear, “because I want you to fuck me.”

The blond let out a groan and fell against his partner, turning his head to force his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. Grinding his hips down, he found the friction he sought, their swollen members throbbing and leaking onto Sherlock’s belly.

A thin hand reached out and fumbled over the duvet, seeking the small package that had been forgotten about until now. Sherlock grunted in frustration, pulling his face away to look for it. A bit of foil poked out from beneath a pillow and he quickly he swiped at it. Ripping the package open, he proceeded to slip the condom over John’s erection, working the hard flesh as it went down.

The doctor groaned and bit his lip. Watching Sherlock work the rubber over him, seeing the lust in his eyes, the shaking and squeezing of his hands giving away his exhilaration and apprehension. Oh, it was too much. He needed to have this man. Right. Now.

Clambering down a bit, John closed his mouth over Sherlock’s, then hooked the long legs up behind his muscular back. Using one hand to line himself up with the lubed hole, he laid the other on the man’s shoulder to steady himself. “You ready,” he whispered against the other man’s mouth.

Sherlock nodded, willing himself to stay relaxed. His hands roamed and grasped at the sweat-slick muscles of the man above him, memorizing every little crevice. Every mark. Trying to keep his mind off the fact that his body was being invaded in a way that was utterly new, and the fact that he was completely okay with it.

“Okay.” He started slowly pushing in. God, it was so tight. He really thought he’d prepped him enough. The look on the detective’s face told him otherwise.

The taller man winced, a sharp hiss escaping from between his teeth as he breathed, trying to force himself to relax more.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was gentle, his body frozen, hand coming up to softly stroke the man’s cheek.

“I’m alright, John. Just…” he shifted his hips, “just go easy.”

The doctor nodded. He hugged his detective to him and pressed in a little further, going slow. Sherlock grunted more the deeper he got, steadily breathing, until, finally, when he was seated to the hilt, they both groaned at their completeness and lay there, stock still, holding on to each other.

“You okay?” John moved a soft, sweat-soaked curl of hair off the man’s forehead and kissed the heated skin.

“Ye- yeah.” Sherlock swallowed. “You’re so good, John. So good.” He kissed the man’s jaw, and his hands came up to massage his neck and shoulders. “So beautiful.”

The smaller man bent down to give his lover a tender kiss, lips settling over lips. His hand he set to work running over the thin frame below him, massaging the strong thighs surrounding him, feeling the thin muscles of the chest, softly stroking one of those wonderful cheekbones. Oh, this man’s beauty should be illegal. He came up and smiled down at him, even as he wedged his other arm under the pillows to support the man’s head.

John watched Sherlock’s face carefully. It seemed the detective had grown accustomed to the flesh inside his own, so the doctor gave his hips a small, experimental twitch. It was gentle. Not a thrust, not a pull, just kind of a soft rolling.

“Mmm,” groaned the taller man, his eyes fluttering shut even as his mouth dropped open.

“Good?” John repeated the movement.

“Nnnnngg, yeessss.” The answer was a breathy hiss, the man’s hand moving gently up and down the doctor’s arm as if it was a snake making the noise.

“More?”

Sherlock nodded. He gripped John’s back with his fingertips and ankles, no doubt giving him bruises, but it’s not like either of them minded. By the time morning came, it would look like they’d gotten into a fight anyway.

Taking a deep breath, and keeping an eye on his lover’s face, John slowly pulled out. Not all the way, just enough to cause a gasp to escape the mouth next to his. Then he pushed back in. There was a moan to follow the gasp. Satisfied, he decided to keep this tempo, for the moment.

There was no need to rush. They had all the time in the world. Hell, they’d taken this long already, what was a few minutes more? Groans, and moans, and breath, and saliva were all exchanged tenderly. Gasps and cries of each other’s names tumbled from their lips as they moved against each other. John increased the amount of flesh he moved in and out of the other man steadily, until, even at this speed, if he didn’t stop, he’d pull out all the way, and the warmth and tightness was just too delicious to do that.

Licking a stripe across Sherlock’s collarbone and up his neck, John pulled out nearly all the way, and pushed back in with a little more force.

“John!” The detective dug his nails into the doctor’s back, clinging with all his might to the other man.

The shorter man repeated the movement, this time giving his hips a quick snap. “Hmm?”

“Yes, more.” He was almost incoherent, but it was the only way he knew how to communicate at the moment. “More of that.”

“This?” asked John, a snarky smile spreading across his face as he repeatedly shoved himself into the other man.

“Please, John,” whimpered Sherlock.

_God, that was hot!_ The doctor licked his lips. “Oh, Sherlock, do it again.” He bent down to tease a nipple in between his lips. Pausing, he continued, “I like it when you beg.” A sharp bite to the man’s pectoral accompanied with a hard thrust, hand under the pillows coming out to lock itself into those exquisite chocolate curls. “I like it so much.”

“Jaawwwn!” He drawled, his cock was getting painful, bouncing, neglected, against his stomach. “Harder, please!” His mind was out of control. He couldn’t even pull up a simple image of a plain circle anymore. It was all pleasure mixed with pain in there now. Sensations only. A whole new level of sensory input he’d never even thought about until this moment.

“You got it, gorgeous.” John gave the detective a kiss, and started pounding into him. He’d wanted to savor this, to be satisfied that he’d finally gotten what he’d wanted for years. But he’d never expected the pure carnal hunger to overtake him like this. Sex with any of the women, and men, that he’d had before had never been this good, this fulfilling. It was like this was a whole new level. Like nothing in this world existed. Not his bedroom. Not the kitchen full of experiments. Not Mrs. Hudson. Not Baker Street. Nothing else. Just him, and Sherlock, and the bedroom, floating in the void of space with nothing and no one to bother them.

“OH! JOHN!” shouted Sherlock suddenly, his fingernails scraping sharply across the skin of his lover’s back. “John, I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Wave after wave of pleasure hit him as the knowledgeable doctor took to repeatedly slamming him in the prostate.

Said doctor was getting close too. He could feel it. That build-up of heat, of pressure in his abdomen, cock throbbing in time with the pulsating muscles surrounding him. He let go of Sherlock’s hair and pushed himself up a bit, managing to get his other hand in between them to wrap it around the man’s neglected erection. “Come on, beautiful. Do it. Do it for me.” He stroked in time with his thrusts, working the debauched man over until –

“AH! Ah! Ah!” Sherlock came in hard pulses, shooting his seed all over John’s hand and his own belly. It was unexpectedly painful. Sure, he’d done endurance experiments before, but the ups and downs of this bout had built it up so badly that going off was almost bittersweet. His legs locked up as his body throbbed; he couldn’t move them even if he tried, not that he wanted to.

“That’s it,” John cooed, dropping and capturing the lips of the disoriented detective with his own. He snapped his hips a few more times before screaming his own orgasm into the other man, his thighs twitching, pelvis almost freezing, cock throbbing as it dribbled the last of its release into the rubber sheath.

Boneless, breathless, the two men lay there, panting heavily for a minute.

“John…”

“Hmm?”

“John…”

The doctor turned, looking into the face of the other man. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“John…”

Forcing himself to recover somewhat, John sat up on his elbows and looked at his friend. Sherlock was gone. Completely out of it. His eyes were closed and it seemed his mind was on a recorded loop, unable to formulate anything coherent other than the name of the man who just fucked him into oblivion. The doctor smiled and kissed the man’s cheek softly, “Hey. Hey, I’m right here.” He nuzzled him and smoothed his hands over him, slowly bringing him back.

Sherlock opened his eyes, the ice turning, dazed, to the doctor on top of him. He managed to close his mouth and lick his lips. “John, I…”

“Shhh.” John kissed him. “It’s alright, you just come down. I’m going soft so I’m gonna pull out, alright?”

“O- kay…” he breathed hesitantly, still unable to really form words.

“Okay.” He moved slowly, not wanting to hurt the other man. As soon as he was free, they both whined at the separation. John then wrapped his arms around the body beneath him, still needing to be as close as he could, no matter the mess that lay between them.

Gingerly, Sherlock unhooked his legs from around the doctor and put them down, entwining them with the other man’s. His arms went up around his back and he rolled a bit, turning them so they lay on their sides. John quickly took a moment to take off the condom and tie it off, throwing it in the waste-bin tucked inside the side table. Rolling back over, he cuddled against the other man.

“Are you okay?” whispered the blond as he softly peppered the brunette’s chest with kisses.

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head. “I’m fine.”

Looking up into his love’s eyes, John gave a small smile, then kissed him tenderly.

Sherlock returned the action, humming happily, then let go. “I must say, that wasn’t what I expected it to be.”

The shorter man cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? And what were you expecting?”

His face went stony for a moment, blank, as he thought. “You know what, I don’t remember.”

They both burst out laughing, like they had so many years ago when they returned to Baker Street after chasing that cab through the streets of London. Their first night together. Now it would be their first night actually together.

John cuddled closer, hugging Sherlock and propping his head against the man’s thin chest. Sighing contentedly, he lay there, softly tracing his fingers along the lines of muscle occupying his field of vision.

Sherlock locked an arm around the other man’s shoulders and lay back against the pillows. Running a hand through his sweat-matted hair, he gave a great breath, the adrenaline finally petering away in favor of calm happiness, but also concern, and curiosity. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“What does this make us?”

His hand froze and he sighed. Sitting up on his elbow, he captured the other man’s eyes with his own. “What do you want it to make us?”

It took a minute before the taller man answered. “Boyfriends?” It was hesitant, like the word felt weird on his tongue. Like it was part of a non-human language, and it didn’t belong in his mouth.

John blinked in surprise. “Really?”

Sherlock reached up and ran his hand over the other man’s face and down over his shoulder. A loving caress, nothing more. Then he nodded. “Yes, John. In fact, it’s something I’ve wanted for a long time now.”

“What?” he asked, still not believing that apathetic, sociopathic, Sherlock “Married-To-My-Work” Holmes would want a personal relationship with another human being. It was incredulous. Even the one time he had seen the detective with a girlfriend had been a charade. He had just been using her as a way to get to Magnussen.

“Yes.”

“For how long?” John was afraid of what the answer to this question was. Was it just a short while? Since he moved back in? Did it happen while he was with Mary? Was it before that?

“Years, John. It’s been years.”

The doctor looked away from the other man. He couldn’t take it. Not like this. Yes, he’d loved the detective in return, ever since, well, it’s hard to put an exact date on it. He was certainly impressed by their first meeting, and even more so later. But love? He guessed it would have to have been when they met Moriarty at the pool (though he hadn’t actually put a name to the feeling until tonight). When Sherlock had shown up, gun in his waistband, to find his flat-mate covered in C4 playing puppet to a monster. The look on the detective’s face, when he realized that Moriarty knew his weakness. When John discovered that _he_ was Sherlock’s weakness. Sherlock’s face when the psychopath had left and he’d frantically stripped the doctor of that horrendous jacket…

Sherlock reached up and took the doctor’s face in his hands, bringing his mind back to the present. “Why do you think I jumped off that roof?”

The blue-gray eyes widened at this. “What?”

“Moriarty was going to kill you, John. You, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, if I didn’t jump.”

“But didn’t he kill himself up on that roof, too?”

“Yes, but by that time his men had already been given their orders and were already in position. That’s why I left for those two years. To track them all down and take them out before they could discover that I was alive and go back to finish the job.”

No. It couldn’t be. It was too much. It was all too much. Sherlock had cared for him this whole time? He searched the man’s face. His eyes had gone back to the dark blue-green. He was serious, then.

“I love you, John Watson. I don’t know how, since I’ve never felt like this about anyone, or why, for the same reason, but I do. You’re so brave, you’re so clever,” he laughed, “you’re so amusing, and patient. And you’re a wonderful balance to me. The heart and the head, as it were. The brain and the brawn.” He sighed and gave a small shrug. “You keep me right. You do your damndest to make sure I don’t get high, but even when I do manage it, you’re always there to take care of me.” He hugged the doctor tight to him and kissed the top of his head, just wanting to be close. Allowing himself this closeness, after so many years without any form of such nonsense.

The last time John had cried, it had been when he was lying in this bed after Mary left. He had been heartbroken, devastated. Now, though, he was happy. Happier than he’d been in a long time. Possibly since before the Fall. He didn’t want to cry in front of Sherlock, though, so he buried his face against the other man’s neck while the tears leaked slowly down his nose. Just two. He didn’t allow any more than that. “I love you, too,” he whispered, surprised at how easily the words came.

They hung on to each other, not wanting to let go now that they could. The warmth of the person you love isn’t something to be tossed away. It had been too long for both of them, hiding behind false feelings and apathetic masks. Through bombings, and hallucinogens, and death, and fire, and marriage, and heartbreak, they finally came together, fit together. Two broken hearts mending each other until they became one. It was all they ever needed.

Just as they were falling asleep, Sherlock’s fingers stroking soft lines down John’s neck, the detective asked one more question. “Does this mean we’re boyfriends?”

John smiled. Even when he was half asleep, Sherlock was himself. “Of course, you idiot.”

“Mmm, good.”

*

Mrs. Hudson, who had slept through the previous night’s activities concerning her tenants, came upstairs bringing their morning tea. No, she wasn’t their housekeeper, nor their mother, but she loved those boys nonetheless. It was late morning, and she was surprised to not see at least one, if not both of them up and about. She didn’t hear anything coming from the upstairs bedroom so she decided to quickly look in on Sherlock. Poking her head through the slightly open door, she gasped quietly, blushing, her hand over her mouth.

Sherlock rolled over from his sprawled out position (having taken up most of the bed with his long limbs) and spooned himself against John’s curled form, nuzzling into the doctor’s hair. He peeked an eye open as he quickly readjusted the duvet over their bodies, annoyed. “Mrs. Hudson, if you insist on staring at us, I suggest taking a picture. I guarantee you it will last much longer.”

“Oh, sorry, dearie.” She popped back out into the hall and made her way down the stairs to her flat as fast as her bad hip would take her.

“What was that?” mumbled John as he rolled over, cuddling against the detective’s chest.

Sherlock yawned. “It was just Mrs. Hudson. I daresay she got the surprise of a lifetime.”

“Christ. We’ll never hear the end of this now, you know.”

Sherlock sighed. “I know.” Then he gave a little laugh, hugged his blogger to him, and went back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. It was a right pain in the arse to write, but these two are such a cute couple, I had to do it. Please, give me any and all feedback you have, even if it was only some kind of emotional reaction. I welcome it. There are some things I know I need to work on, but I really do want to know what y'all think, as I'm thinking about developing this into a more full-fleshed story, hopefully one of novel size. As always, thank you all for reading, and I hope you have a nice night/day/time.


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